


You don't get it.

by spacetrash_uwu



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, Genderbending, Other, careful, sensitive stuff on gender identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetrash_uwu/pseuds/spacetrash_uwu
Summary: Now, her bed was still perfectly made, the floor hard and cool unlike the warm, comfy nests Ancom would create. She just sat there, staring at the wall.Trigger Warning: Sensitive stuff on gender identity, and overall very uncomfortable vibes
Relationships: leftist unity - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	You don't get it.

Commie sat on the floor next to her bed.

That’s where Ancom liked to sit.

They hated rules, no matter how reasonable; more often than not they would tear the blankets and pillows off the bed to make a nest on the dirty floor. Commie always cringed as her beddings got covered in the dust collecting there, but she had always tried to see the positives; at least Ancom’s silly habit made her even more cleanly than she already was. Her vacuuming routine became so tight that her floor was pristine practically all the time. And through it she was able to kick the American custom of wearing shoes indoors.

Now, her bed was still perfectly made, the floor hard and cool unlike the warm, comfy nests Ancom would create. She just sat there, staring at the wall.

“Why do you do this?”

Ancom seemed to try very hard to understand her, but they failed miserably, brows furrowed as they followed her dexterous fingers working her model without any idea of why any of this would be interesting.

“It’s relaxing and productive at the same time.”

She dipped the fine brush in the olive green paint shade MC979, carefully running the fibers along the edge of the tank’s tower to create a starker shadow than the natural lighting would; she had spent an embarrassing amount of money on the model and wanted it to come out perfect.

“It’s just boring.”

Commie had sold Ancom on the idea of model building by claiming it was a meditative exercise akin to coloring mandalas; she had listened in on Ancom rambling something about the strange pictures to a friend of theirs and used it to her advantage. Ancom had been downright excited to go and join her little hobby.

Not for long though, as they quickly realized that what they had been imagining as a spiritual rite turned out to just be Commie nerding out about tanks while she first mindlessly stuck the pieces together according to a manual and then painted them mindnumbingly slowly as to get every minute detail right.

Ancom had tried to suggest they use a can of spraypaint to make a colorful tank; a sort of postmodernist twist on the hobby, as being brightly painted was exactly the opposite of what tanks should be. They had been proud of their hot take, but Commie could only frown deeply, explaining that everything had to be done exactly like the real thing, otherwise it wasn’t a real model. Ancom probably also didn’t draw within the lines of mandalas either.

“Tankie, this is the worst thing you’ve ever made me watch.

“Don’t you find it relaxing?”

“It’s not relaxing, it has rules!”

“Rules are relaxing,” Commie defended, dipping her brush in the olive green paint shade MC830 to add the flair of wear and tear. “That way you don’t have to think about things. You just follow them.”

Ancom’s mouth fell open in disbelief. They snapped it shut again, crossing their arms. “They’re not. They imply you can do things wrong. That’s really stressful.”

Commie looked over, smirking. “Only if your care about not breaking them.”

She absentmindedly reached behind her, burrowing her hand under her pillow and pulling out the knife she kept there. She held it up in front of her face, loosely letting it dangle between her fingers. Her index finger ran across the edge; it was dull. That was probably for the better if she already stored it right by her jugular.

The knife used to have a sheath, but she lost it in a skirmish with Nazi; the fascist had been harassing Ancom one too many times and she had decided that it was the last straw. She had resolutely told Nazi to shut up or be shut up by her, prompting Nazi to turn her taunts towards Commie. Annoyed since it had been a long day and because she refused to take even one more night of a distraught Ancom whining to her, Commie had punched Nazi in the face, which was enough reason for the fascist to pull out her gun. Commie did the same with her knife and the two of them disarmed each other without anyone landing a proper blow with either of their weapons.

The sheath was lost in the skirmish, likely having been kicked away by Nazi while they struggled.

The whole exercise was for naught anyways. Ancom still ended up blubbering in bed with her about what Nazi had said. They always pretended that they got angry over Nazi’s insults, but in reality, they just got sad. So much crying over such few words. And Commie had to listen to all of it.

The foursome was playing poker; Ancap had somehow tricked them into playing even though none of them had any interest in gambling whatsoever. She had originally suggested they play blackjack, with her obviously taking the role of the bank, but at least that terrible idea had been avoided; and, to everyone’s relief, they weren’t playing for money either.

Ancom’s foot brushed up against Commie’s leg and she smiled into her cards. Commie was absolutely rotten at poker, as all of them were, except of course Ancap. Nazi took risks way too easily while Commie took none at all, and she wasn’t entirely sure if Ancom had a proper grasp on the rules; Nazi had convinced Commie that Ancap was cheating the first time they played together, but it had turned out Ancap was just freakishly good. How insulting.

It didn’t matter. Ancom’s foot once again brushed up and down her leg and it was small and adorable and she threw them a sly smile while they innocently inspected their cards.

“Are you guys cheating?” Nazi asked, narrowing her eyes.

Commie snapped back into herself, flustered for no more than a moment. “No, Nazi, but I can see it’s becoming a pattern that you accuse others of cheating when you’re losing.”

“I’m not losing!” her voice cracked, “I have a master plan.”

“Yes, please tell us about it,” Ancap purred, and the stupid fascist almost fell for it. So boastful.

Commie paid no more attention to the bickering rightists, instead focusing on reciprocating Ancom’s little gestures. They blushed next to her, biting their lip as she imperceptibly leaned closer, her foot running up even higher than theirs had.

She hadn’t really started noticing Ancom living with them until they began their cute little advances. Small things like making her coffee, but none of the others, or putting a blanket across both of them during movie nights. Or movie nights as a whole. It used to be that on even days, the auths got to watch World War II movies, and on odd ones, the anarchists would watch chick flicks, but Ancom had slowly but surely changed the routine to the rightists having fun with their weird Wolf of Wallstreet knockoffs, while they and Commie got to indulge in cyberpunk films bashing capitalism.

Once Ancom had gotten the rightists to watch American Psycho to prank them. The prank backfired completely, with both Nazi and Ancap enjoying the film for wrong (and completely unrelated) reasons, but at least the buildup of Ancom attempting to scheme had been fun.

Throwing Ancom a meaningful glance, Commie excused herself to the bathroom. She prettied up her hair in front of the mirror there, slowly getting nervous that Ancom might stay rooted to their seat because they were nervous. Then the door clicked open and Ancom came in, fidgeting with their sleeve.

“Hey, so,” they began, but Commie had always been surprisingly impatient when it came to real life; she was great at wading through terribly long literature, but in all interpersonal things, she could never wait to get to the good part. She leaned forward, cupping Ancom’s face in her hand, and kissed them. They were shaking and she brought up her other hand to the small of their back to steady them.

“No need to be nervous,” she whispered and kissed them again.

She perked up her ears; it was completely silent and she hated it. No one was home, no bickering, no slamming doors, no fussing around in the kitchen. Commie was alone with her thoughts, loudly ringing in her head. It was starting to hurt.

The wind could at least have the courtesy to howl, or maybe the the rain to fall, have the clatter on the window soothe her.

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t get it, Ancom.”

Ancom’s face was contorted into a pained grimace as they wrung their hands, seemingly hoping to get through to Commie via their body language instead of words. It didn’t work at all. Commie was a word girl.

“I just don’t see the problem, Anarkitty. It’s okay, I accept you, right?” She gestured at their middle, voice sweetened. “I don’t have a problem with this.”

“That’s not- you, _dang_ it!” Ancom buried their face in their hands. “How much clearer do I have to make this? Why can’t you just understand me?”

“How much clearer do I have to make that I don’t mind?” Commie tilted her head, annoyance creeping up on her as this conversation just wouldn’t find an end. “I’m not Nazi.”

“This isn’t about _you_ , for god’s sake!” Ancom exclaimed, throwing their hands up. “This is about _me_. Me. And what _I’m_ comfortable with, okay?”

“Okay,” Commie said condescendingly.

“You still don’t get it.”

“You didn’t tell me anything, Ancom! You need to use words. Language. I'm never going to get it if you don’t say what ‘it’ is.”

Ancom sighed theatrically, running a hand through their short locks. Commie wanted to curl her fingers in it. “I- I just don’t feel that great in my skin right now. And when that happens, I just don’t want to,” they motioned vaguely between them, “to do this.”

“You can call it sex, Anarkitty.”

“I don’t want to!” they shouted suddenly.

Commie was taken aback, but didn’t show it, gaze losing nothing of its stern hardness.

“How long do you expect me to put up with this?” she asked after a moment. “This has been happening more and more often.”

“Yeah, because Nazi has been a huge asshole more and more often lately.”

“I’m sick of being punished for things Nazi did!” Commie raised her voice as well now. “This is absurd! Nazi says something, and regardless of how offhanded or honestly lame it was, you throw a huge hissy fit over it like she stole your kidney or something! I never did anything, and as I said, I don’t care what you have down there or what you feel or whatever-”

“Yeah, you don’t care. Great,” Ancom crossed their arms, but the gesture was less standoffish and more like they were curling in on themselves. “And don’t lie. You used to have a problem.”

Commie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I was confused at first, because it’s weird, okay? It’s weird. But that lasted like what, two days?” She shook her head. “Get over it.”

Their voice cracked. “I can’t.”

Commie’s eyes were dry; they ached lightly, burning from when she’d still had the energy to cry. She twirled the knife in her hand haphazardly, sure she couldn’t cut herself because the blade had gone so dull without its sheath. It reflected the sunlight into her eyes and she had to squint.

Nazi always made fun of her for having it. ‘Why don’t you get a gun?’ she’d ask, pulling out her trusty pistol to brag with it.

Commie didn’t even have an answer for that. Maybe she wanted to distance herself from the rightists and their obsession with firearms. And she'd always much preferred her big, impersonal tanks.

“Tankie?”

Commie rubbed her eyes; it was dark and the bed was soft and warm. Something even softer and warmer curled up next to her. She lazily turned and threw her arm around it.

“Mhm?” she hummed in response; Ancom was rather overly prone to bouts of lengthy insomnia, often using any excuse to wake her up during them and chat with her.

“Why do you even like me?”

She cuddled up closer. “Because you’re lovely, and you’re kind.” Compliment the outside and the inside, just like Ancap had taught her after nearly dying of a stroke when she'd once caught Commie trying to flirt; Ancap had charged her disconcertingly little for the short lesson in courting she had imparted on Commie, insisting that she was doing more it for her mental health than Commie’s dating success.

“But we don’t care about the same things.”

Oh dear. It was one of the melancholic bouts of insomnia, the worst kind there was.

Commie forced herself to wake up a little because she already knew Ancom wouldn’t leave her be if she didn’t at least try to give them a proper answer.

“We both care about people,” she said, schooling her voice to sound more lively than she felt. “And don’t want to leave them out to die. I think that’s pretty good common ground, considering that the kulaks down the hall _don’t_.”

Ancom didn’t seem satisfied, but let her sleep. Good enough.

She angled her head up a the ceiling, the plaster spalling; she should fix that at some point.

She missed them. The clawing hole in her lungs became worse with each day, not better. She would do everything to get them back, steal, murder, kidnap – whatever anyone asked of her, she would do it. Anything to patch this awful hole sucking out her joy and life and soul as if to taunt her.

But they weren’t coming back. They let their silly ideas of identity get in the way of both of their collective happiness and now she had to sit here, on the floor, where Ancom used to sit.

“I’m not doing this anymore, Commie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“Not for you.”

Ancom pressed their lips into a tight line. “It doesn’t matter. I- I just don’t feel comfortable around you anymore. You made sure of that.”

Commie rolled her eyes, face breaking out into a terribly unhappy, lopsided grin. “Sure I did. I was such a monster.”

“You can’t mock me into staying.”

 _But I can force you_.

Commie started. She felt nauseous all of sudden, unable to speak anymore. She blinked once, twice, the single thought echoing in her head.

“I,” she stepped back from Ancom, who furrowed their brows at her sudden change in attitude, “I think- just go. That’s probably better. You should go.”

Her hand grasped at her head as she crouched down on the floor, only hearing the door close as Ancom left.

Commie still sat leaned against her bed, fumbling around with her knife.

The door opened; her eyes shot up, wide, hopeful.

It was Nazi.

“We ordered takeout. It’s on the counter,” she said and closed the door a moment later.

“I’m not hungry,” Commie whispered at the closed door.

The hole was still open, howling inside her lungs with every breath.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a cute collection of scenes but then I suddenly got into an angsty mood, maybe a little overly so. It's also quite vague, I apologize for that, but it felt right in the moment. Hope you enjoy!


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